Lady and the Tramp
by Slow to Dream
Summary: AU: Elsa Arendelle, fashion and underwear model living alone at the tender age of 22, is determined she doesn't need a man in her life. Enter Anna, an eighteen-year-old vagrant found...in an alley? A strange relationship is born! - "Why are you following me around? Stop it." "But a pet has to follow its master!" "Oh God..." - Elsanna, HumanPet!Anna and Master!Elsa.
1. Glass Princess

**A/N: **Hello! What? **Slow to Dream**, not finishing a story and starting a WHOLE new one? Again? Psssaah, like THAT'S never happened before!

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any thing made/produced by **Disney**, **Pixar**, **DreamWorks**,

Completely inspired by (stolen from, lol) by **StarvingLunatic**'s _Kim Possible_ version of the manga _Tramps Like Us_! She's published guys, go check out her book _Scarred For Life_ on **Amazon** and **Smashwords**!

* * *

**Lady and the Tramp**

**Chapter 1 **

**Glass Princess**

* * *

The beautiful girl, golden hair so pale it passes for snow, reclines back on the silk bed. It's comfortable and expensive, but it's not hers. The bed is an illusion, a caricature to the perceived image she is attainable.

A cigar is elegantly trapped between her ruby lips and smoke crawls out her mouth and shifts into the air. The short dress is practically spray-painted on her skin, the blood-red accenting her painted lips. She oozes sex and power.

_Draw the right leg up a few more inches, turn a little more to the left. Look into the camera with a cool, icy look. Don't move an inch. Grace, beauty, poise. You are powerful. _

"Amazing, Dahlin', amazing," Edna Mode, the photographer, crooned, "Bring your left arm above your head now, and shield your forehead with your hand."

Elsa does as she's commanded, even going as far as giving a playful wink into the camera. A smirk graces her lips and the cigar moves a tiny inch, releasing more smoke into the haze. A perfect mask.

*****TO THE LAMBS, THE TIGERS, AND MOST OF ALL, THE SPIDERS*****

**Being a model is not something you can work for.**

**An hourglass figure isn't a new dress you can buy.**

**You cannot forge ruby lips and diamond eyes.**

**You are not a recipient of the genetic lottery.**

**Get over it.**

"Yes, yes! You're perfect, Dahlin', just perfect."

As more shots are taken and different poses are asked, Elsa's attention fades into static as her mind travels down a rabbit-hole.

She tells herself this photo-shoot is the most important of her career—no, her life. Tells herself, no matter how hurt, she must keep her image. She's perfect, invincible, a _goddess_. The Snow Queen.

She has to tell herself she's invulnerable. That nothing can touch her, nothing can faze her.

Because he had gotten through her armor.

He had promised her the moon, danced with her under the stars, and then he broke her heart.

It had been a month since that incident—and here she is. Smoking coldly into the camera, looking into the lenses with a frozen stare befitting her nickname—the Snow Queen.

Strong. Unmoved.

Powerful.

* * *

_An hour later..._

"Great shoot, guys!"

An excited murmur of agreement filled the room before everyone begins packing up. Elsa, in jeans and a simple cardigan with a shirt underneath, sits on the bed prop. Only fifteen minutes ago, she was draped over the bed in a sinfully seductive dress and an expensive Cuban cigar. Only fifteen minutes ago, she was the untouchable Snow Queen.

Now, with only a touch of lip-gloss and light eye-liner, she is Elsa Arendelle. Just Elsa.

With a sudden plop beside her, Edna Mode seems to erupt into Elsa's existence from nowhere.

"Oh, Dahlin', if you weren't such an absolute _goddess_, that look wouldn't work _nearly_ as well."

"What's wrong with my look?" Elsa grabs her messy braid and bites her lip, squirming a bit.

With a profession based on how she looks, Elsa is never quite confident.

A model is self-conscious of the image she reflects.

How adorably ironic.

Edna waves her hand. "Oh, nothing. You look absolutely adorable, like always."

Edna Mode, famous photographer and equally famous fashion designer, has always been Elsa's boss. She was the one who had scouted her since grade school, after all. She's a tiny woman with a sharp knack for fashion and an even sharper tongue.

Edna's a second mother to her, even if Elsa doesn't remember who her first mother was.

And like any mother, she pries. "…Still difficult to cut ties?"

A frown. She doesn't have to answer, but she does. Edna does that to people. "I don't really know. I…"

Her voice falls flat unto the floor and just dies there. She can't say his name, can't remember the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way his voice spreads sunshine through her body.

"You know what you need? Something to care for, something that should keep you productive! No time for feeling sorry yourself, dear." Edna tilts her head and taps her chin. "Maybe a pet…? A cat or dog, maybe?"

"I don't like animals." Elsa frowns a bit and taps her fingers along the silk sheets. "Could use a smoke right now…"

*****THE SMOKE CHAMBER, MY LUNGS*****

**A father looks into his curious little girl's eyes.**

**She asks what it is, the thing between his lips with the funny smell.**

"**Well, honey, it's a cigarette."**

**What does it do, she asks. **

**The father thinks for a moment before coming up with an honest answer.**

"**It grabs you and never lets go."**

"Dahlin', that's a bad habit." Edna scolds, "Smoking will ruin your lungs, I'm telling you."

Edna doesn't mention the she smokes a pipe. _Filthy hypocrite_, Elsa thinks.

At least the subject is changed. "Oh? And what about my looks?"

A glare. "You'll always be fabulous in my eyes, Dahlin'." Edna raps her knuckles on Elsa's head and walks away. "It's your health I'm worried about. Remember, next photo-shoot is in a month."

Elsa can't help but to grin a bit.

_Edna, always looking after me._

* * *

"Woah, check out that chick..."

"She's so beautiful...who is...?"

"Oh my God, is that…!"

"The Snow Queen…"

"She's so pretty, I'm jealous!"

"Even prettier in person…"

She doesn't mind not having a car. It's not the walk that bothers her.

It's the eyes. The eyes and the whispers.

Being a model pays well, extremely well, but the attention that comes with it is…unnerving. She has to place the mask on again. That unattainable, distant goddess has to grace her features. She must become the Snow Queen.

Her feet begin to move more gracefully, every step a sure calculated movement to compliment her legs and hips. Her eyes soften and her lips are relaxed into a gentle line. Her chin tilts up, just barely enough, and her shoulders are back. She is not walking anymore. Rather, she is a moving pose, a shifting frame of perfection.

Smoke and mirrors.

Goddamn it, she needs a car.

* * *

Turning up the street faster. Her mask is beginning the crack under the pressure. Elsa quickly darts into a shortcut through an alley to her studio apartment. She stops when she smells trash and hopelessness.

Breathes out nice and slow. Composes herself.

She comes to terms with herself that this will happen since she is a model. Remembers what Edna told her about being in public. Then she remembers what _he _had said about her being in public.

And then violently kicks the first thing she sees.

The big brown box that feels her wrath is turned over.

Elsa did not expect to see a body come tumbling out of the box.

She sees strawberry-blonde locks and cute freckles before she does what any person confronted with a surprise corpse does.

She screams bloody murder.

* * *

She should call the cops. Let them deal with this.

But the body, the girl, looks so cute and helpless lying there unconscious. She blinks, and all at once, finds herself teleported to her studio, wrestling with the lock on her door while juggling the girl on her back. She smells, her hair needs some work, and she's bruised. This isn't a job for the police: it's a job for someone who cares.

And, surprisingly enough, she actually cares. A hesitant, faint desire of curiosity, but better than nothing at all.

*****CRIPPLES, BASTARDS, AND BROKEN THINGS*****

**The cracked porcelain doll is placed gently on the windowsill.**

**The doll knows it is ugly, broken, dirty.**

**And yet the angel had saved her.**

**"I am no longer perfect. I am ugly. Why do you keep me?"**

**The angel smiles and turns.**

**The doll looks at the scars and the angel's clipped wings.**

**"I'm broken, too."**

Laying the smelly cute hobo on her couch, Elsa reevaluates her life.

She watches the homeless girl she brought in like some stray cat mumble and squirm in her sleep.

She would figure this out in the morning, she tells herself.

A whimper reaches her ears and she looks at her guest a little more clearly. Ratty ginger hair, freckles dotting her rosy cheeks and chapped lips. Her hand seems hurt, the way it's swollen like a tennis ball. They way she sleeps, the vagrant reminds Elsa of a stray cat.

She doesn't know why, but she's stroking the animal-girl's hair. Slow and gentle, she runs her fingers through her hair and manages not to gag from the smell. She's young, Elsa notes, very young. Maybe eighteen, nineteen? Certainly not Elsa's age.

When the girl gives Elsa a comatose smile and snuggles closer to her hand, a fire blooms in Elsa's chest and the Velcro on her candy lips relax into a smile. Finally.

"Strange kid…" Elsa whispers softly.

* * *

**A/N: **Haven't even come close to finishing _Kindred Souls_, but I really wanted to write this. PLEASE leave behind some constructive criticism.

Remember, reviews are super-fantastic and I reply to a lot of them, so fire away please! Love you!


	2. Rain down in Africa

**A/N: **Thanks for the overwhelming support! To the *one* person who said I didn't credit _Tramps Like Us_…shame on you. Someone didn't read the beginning Author's Notes.

Don't own _Fight For You _by Jason Derulo. For the title.

* * *

**Lady and the Tramp**

**Chapter 2**

**Rain down in Africa**

* * *

Elsa wakes up bright and early.

Not because her alarm clock is screeching into the dawn. Not because the orchestra of birds outside her window. Not because she went to bed a bit early.

It's the smell.

"What the fu…" Elsa squints hard and wrinkles her nose. The smell, she has to admit, is something quite formidable. Ripe. Putrid.

Before she can roll of her bed to investigate what on Earth is emitting that smell, her progress is halted by a body. But there's no way that's possible, Elsa thinks to herself, she lives alone—then she feels an arm across her torso.

Elsa tornados to face the other side of her bed, to face that body huddled close to her. When she turns, Elsa is confronted with wide sea-blue eyes and friendly freckles.

"Hi!"

"Oh shi….!"

Elsa, from sheer shock, tumbles from the bed and lands on her carpet with a squawk. Hissing from the sudden lack of warmth, Elsa rubs her head from her fall and looks up to her bed. She sees the redhead peering over the edge of the bed.

Curious little thing.

A soft silence graces the room and Elsa slowly studies her face. Bright inquisitive eyes that reminds her of the sea, feather eyelashes and gentle speckles dotting her cheeks. Her hair is alive in the morning light; kissed by fire and burning with the sun.

Elsa asks, "What are you doing here?"

The redhead disappears from her cliff of the bed, before careening off the bed and flopping on the ground. She gets up from the floor, crawling on all fours to greet her. Those curious eyes Elsa is appreciating gets closer, until Elsa, moving away from her, is pinned against her own wall and the redhead is nearly touching her.

The closeness of her breath, how she can see every one of those little dots against her cheek, is making Elsa dizzy. Maybe it's the smell?

"I don't know!" the redhead gives a sheepish grin, "But you're really pretty!"

So she's an airhead, Elsa consults. A total airhead. But her voice is so sweet, so soft, Elsa can fall into it. Wrap herself around it and bury herself in it.

An embarrassing question floats to the corner of her mind and springs at her all at once. It catches fire and Elsa can't help but feel it torching her cheeks.

"You slept in my bed!"

The airhead nods with a smile. "Your bed is crazy comfortable." She leans in and wraps Elsa is a hug, "And so are you!"

Elsa pushes the redhead away, afraid of the sudden contact. She can feel the fire on her cheeks spreading to her neck and the rest of her face like wildfire. Skin on skin will only twist and bend her in an awkward position of crippling shyness.

Another irony. A beautiful girl, so fluid and graceful she walks amongst humans in a separate world of her own, is shy.

*****THE MAGICIAN, AN INTROVERT*****

**Now, for this simple trick, all you need to do is**

**smile at me**

**talk to me**

**And watch as I vanish from your very eyes. **

Elsa shoots up from the floor, the battle scars of embarrassment marring her face with a delicate shade of pink. The vagrant looks up from the floor with a stupid smile, watching Elsa shiver and stumble over her words without a care in the world.

"Why would you sleep next to me?" Elsa's voice is tumbling over itself and she frowns to keep the façade that she's upset. Really, it's more of a defense mechanism.

The girl, taking the stammer and anger in stride, has no problem repeating herself. "Your bed looked so soft and warm!"

_Calm, Elsa. You are the Snow Queen. You are powerful._

She crouches low, to meet the redhead head-on. Clapping both hands against the vagrant's cheeks, she holds the stranger's face up. "That doesn't give you permission to sleep in my bed." Elsa's steel-blue eyes are honed in on sea-blue.

"I'm sorry. How do you want me to make it up to you?" A grin.

Elsa ignores the fact that she's blushing harder now. She tightens the pressure against the girl's cheeks and she can hear the faintest intake of breath. Elsa feels as if she's outside of herself, the only thing keeping her nearly _there _is her racing heartbeat and the fire running through her veins.

Who _is _this girl?

Elsa parts her lips to speak, looking into the girls round, curious eyes—

_Grroowwwlll._

Both sets of eyebrows shoot up and the girl beneath her looks moderately sheepish and embarrassed.

*****HOW TO INSTANTLY BEFRIEND A HOMELESS VAGRANT*****

"…**was that your stomach?" Elsa smirks.**

"**Ah…I haven't eaten in a while…" the girl offers a weak smile.**

**Elsa considers her position for a moment.**

**A stagnant pause.**

**Stiff silence.**

"…"

"…"

"**Want to get some breakfast?"**

"**...like eggs? Sausages? Pancakes?"**

"**Sure."**

"**I kinda don't have any money…?"**

"**On me."**

**The vagrant grins a thousand suns and her eyes twinkle like stars.**

"**It's like true love!" the vagrant makes an affectionate dive to hug Elsa.**

"**Gah!"**

* * *

"Ahhh…that feels so good!"

Elsa rolls her eyes as she massages the shampoo into the redhead's scalp. Before they went out for breakfast, after smelling that _terrible plague _the redhead called travel woes, Elsa remembers vehemently ordering the vagrant to get in the bath.

The Cheshire girl, cheerful grin still prevailing her lips, told Elsa that she couldn't wash herself; holding up a hand with a swell resembling a tennis ball, the girl theatrically whimpered it hurt too much to move her hand.

So here she is. Sitting on a small chair behind the tub.

Scrubbing a homeless vagrant's hair.

With a pair of shades on.

There's laughter in her voice. "Why're you wearing sunglasses?"

"Shut up. I don't want to see you nude." More massaging.

A pleased sigh escapes the redhead's lips. "I don't mind."

"Well, I do."

A moment of silence robs them of their voices. Elsa, combing with her fingers and massaging, and Anna, sitting with her eyes closed.

Suddenly, a gasp. "…I never asked you for your name!"

"It's Elsa." She runs her fingers along the redhead's mane, combing out filth and dirt. "I've never asked you for your name either."

Another small noise of pleasure. "That feels so good, Elsa!" and then a sly undertone creeps from her voice, "But I don't think I can wash my body either…."

Elsa viciously scrubs shampoo against the vagrant's mouth. As the redhead muffled protests and whining reverberates through the bathroom, Elsa dries her hands with a towel.

"I'll be waiting outside for you to finish, okay? Hurry up." the corner of her mouth twitches upward as she sees the redhead floundering about in the pool, attempting to wash off the shampoo in her mouth.

She closes the bathroom door with a smirk and gets herself dressed.

For once, Elsa doesn't feel the need for her morning smoke.

* * *

"Ah, I feel refreshed!"

"I'd assume so."

The redhead stretches, palms stretched out to the sky, as she steps out the studio. In a simple flannel, jean shorts, and a pair of flats, the vagrant looked fresh and, dare Elsa say it, rather cute. Of course, all of her clothes are Elsa's, hand-chosen for the airhead to wear. The vagrant didn't seem to have much care for fashion, willing to go out with anything Elsa would've gave her.

Now cleaned, she looks like a completely different person. The ratty bird's nest is groomed to a shiny, sleek red mane tamed into two pigtails. Her skin is no longer crusted with dirt and filth, but rather, pale and smooth. Her lips looked rejuvenated from their skeleton-dry desert state, a healthy pink.

"How do you like the hair?" Elsa flicks a pigtail off the redhead's shoulder.

"I love it!"

Elsa raises an eyebrow. "What if I braided you cornrows?"

"I'd love it!"

So the redhead didn't care about her hair either. In fact, Elsa's willing to bet that the redhead doesn't care about her appearance at all. Elsa wishes she could share that same apathy.

They continue walking together, Anna trotting after Elsa, until they stop in front of a small, homely diner that looks out of place here in the metropolis.

"Tiana's Palace…." Elsa can see the younger girl's eyes rake up and down the restaurant, "Look's great." She takes a few sniffs of the air, nose twitching a bit, "Smells really great."

Elsa hums in agreement, deep in thought. She doesn't know why she's back here. After all, _he_ was the one who took her to this place. Old habits are hard to kill, Elsa guessed. She remembers the times she had with him there, laughing together over sweet syrup on pancakes and honeyed coffee. His sweet words melting her heart and waking the butterflies in her stomach.

*****TO THE NEW BOY(GIRL)FRIEND, BY RUDY FRANCISCO *****

**S(he) always wore h(is)er heart on her sleeve, so why the hell**

**do you look so familiar?**

**I think I've seen you somewhere in h(is)er smile.**

**Like I've heard your voice in h(is)er laughter.**

**I bet if we dusted h(is)er heart for fingerprints,**

**we would only find yours. **

Elsa feels a soft pair of lips on her ear and deep breathes against her hair.

"Gyah!" Elsa leaps in the air and looks at the girl with a peevish look, "What was that all about?"

The girl smiles sunshine and Elsa is suddenly scarlet-red. "I thought it was the pancake house that smells great," she takes the older girl's hand in her's, "But it's definitely you."

Scowling, Elsa flicks the girl on her nose and walks into the establishment. As the redhead whines and trots after her, Elsa can't keep the small little smile off her face.

* * *

**A/N: **Short chapter, I know, but it's all I have right now. Please review if you have the time? I always respond to the ones I can.


	3. Sounds Like Progress

**A/N: **100+ follows in just two chapters! I love you guys!

* * *

**Lady and the Tramp**

**Chapter 3**

**Sounds Like Progress**

* * *

They stand inside the cozy restaurant, side by side. Taking in the smells of pancakes, bacon, people and morning. It's been a while.

An assortment of colors reminds Elsa of old times. Eggshell walls and rich mahogany furniture line themselves up and down the establishment and varying customers with different colored plates of colorful food. An assemblage of colors.

Before long, a gorgeous, brown-haired man approaches.

Flynn Rider's smile is crooked, sarcasm and a sneer hanging off his lips. Rugged dark hair and brown eyes, he looks like the typical alpha male type. Elsa wrinkles her nose as he draws near; he reeks of cologne and arrogance.

*****DIDN'T ANYONE TELL YOU?*****

**You can't trust a pretty boy with light skin. **

**He wears his mask well. Too well.**

**Look carefully when you get close.**

**You can see the crack in his face at the brim of his crooked smile. **

"Well, well. How's it been, you Highness?"

"Not as horrible as your nose job."

"Ouch, Snow Queen. You might hurt someone's feelings with those little snarky bits."

Elsa hates that nickname.

Her eyes are diamond snowflakes and her skin is satin-snow. She bleeds sparkling blue and her heart is frozen into a diamond—or so the stories say. Elsa wants to tell them she's far from perfect, that the Snow Queen is easily melted, if only they'd look a little closer.

Her skin isn't freshly fallen snow. Her satin-white skin is softly freckled with pale imperfections. Her hands aren't chilling kisses of snow, and in fact, melt into a moist mess when she's nervous. She isn't perfect, and she never asked to be.

But she'll wear that cloak. She'll take that white-hot brand and gladly brand it into her skin.

If she accepts it, believes it to be true, becomes _more _than Elsa Arendelle—then she'll be unstoppable.

Untouchable. Unreachable.

Hold it proud like a shield, Elsa tells herself, and nothing can touch you. Nothing can reach you.

"Take a picture, gorgeous. It'll last longer."

Elsa snaps out of her daze. "Just get me a booth, Flynn."

He lets out an inspired laugh and saunters away, beckoning them to follow. Elsa hates him but goddamn, he fits that dress shirt and those khakis perfectly. In all the right ways.

"Alright, ladies, this way."

He turns with a hum, his steps holding a certain bounce in them. As they walk through the busy diner, Elsa falls to the rear, as she normally does. The habit of hiding her pearl skin and diamond eyes and ruby lips is hammered into her mind. Hiding the light that shines from them is crucial.

The light attracts the whispers. It creeps into her ears, and in her fear, they birth the eyes, the stares. The whispers and the stares are born from the light. And so, Elsa decided so long ago, the light must die.

It's impossible to escape the gazes and the whispers, but walking behind a group, even as small as two people, certainly helps. It creates a false sense of security, a physical relief of a shield, to ease her mind. And slowly, some of the eyes close. Some of the whispers die out.

Speaking of whispers, Elsa raises an eyebrow when she tunes into Flynn and the redhead's conversation up front.

"Pancakes are _way _better!" the vagrant laughs and sprites ahead of both of them, twirling with her arms out, her eyes shining like beacons.

"Red, waffles are the breakfast of the future!"

Mm. Red. The name flows off her tongue and Elsa catches herself before she can whisper that nickname again.

Red is bright and catches eyes. Red is good.

Red equals hot, fire, warmth.

Life.

It suits the girl who has tiny miniature suns dotting her cheeks, fire kissing her hair, and blazing stars as her eyes.

And honestly, in some cruel streak of irony, the girl reminds Elsa of what she used to be. Happy.

As the girl dances through aisles with a smile, debating with Flynn, Elsa touches a surprised smile on her lips. She's forgotten what it's like to smile for so long it felt strange.

*****IT'S NICE*****

**Don't you just love those moments, when**

**a moment isn't just a moment, but rather,**

**a little piece of eternity dropped into our hands?**

**And who knows just what to do with those?**

**You can only shield it with your hands,**

**feel the warm glow of the moment,**

**and just watch. Reminisce.**

**With a smile, of course. **

"What do you think, Elsa?" She feels warm-blue eyes on her and she represses a shiver. Those eyes are seriously beautiful.

Elsa shrugs. "They're practically the same thing."

"What…how could you say that?"

"Well," Elsa can list off a dozen reasons, "They're made from the same batter and they got the same consistency."

A gasp of horror later, and Elsa feels the need to explain herself. "Plus it all tastes the same to me."

"What!"

"I don't really like food that much."

"How!"

"It's a hassle, to be honest."

Flynn manages to take them to a quiet booth where they can't make a huge disruption. Elsa neatly seats herself on one side and watches Red catapult into the cushion across from her. She pops her head out from under the table and squints at Elsa with suspicion.

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want to believe."

"So…no mac and cheese? No ice cream or pancakes or chicken?"

"Nope."

Red just places a check on the table, looking up through her eyebrows at Elsa. With those eyes.

A pregnant pause peaks. And suddenly, the silence is gone. Red snatches a menu from the table and tears through the material with her eyes, flipping through the pages. Elsa quirks up an eyebrow.

"That menu's not going anywhere, Red."

She continues her examination, her brow scrunched together in concentration. "I know. I'm going to find you something you like."

Elsa laughs. Well, this is certainly refreshing. Someone who cares.

"Food's an awesome thing, and I'm going to find something you love!"

Elsa hums in acceptance and leans back on the cushion. It's cute, the way Red's trying so hard to find something that'll please her. Her eyes dart across the pages and the pages are zipped through.

"Ha!"

"What?"

"Breakfast specials! The Vanellope Von Schweetz: Vanilla-buttermilk pancakes with chocolate chips in them!"

"Sounds like Diabetes."

"No," Red hops up and down her seat with excitement, a grin splitting her cheeks "It sounds like progress!"

"Elsa!"

A crushing death grip chokes her and she can smell strawberries and nature and blondeness.

"It's been so long!"

It's Rapunzel.

* * *

**A/N: **Yeah, this one's a shorty. I could write much this month at all because of all the chaos in my life right now. But not a grandma-died-and-now-I'm-sad type of chaos but a I'm-busy-and-super-happy type of chaos.

Expect a much longer chapter next time. Sorry!


	4. Do You Wanna Have Some Pancakes?

**A/N: **Fuck I thought I wrote a pretty decent-sized chapter, but it's practically the same…I'm sorry! Heavy editing might come later, so watch out for that.

* * *

**Lady and the Tramp**

**Chapter 4**

**Do You Wanna Have Some Pancakes?**

* * *

Elsa manages to withstand the vice grip she's placed in, before her surprise attacker recedes. The gagging stench of flowers and sunshine follows. She leans back and warily inspects her assaulter.

"Rapunzel. What have I told you about hugs?" Elsa has a strict no-touching policy.

"Sorry!" a guilty grin intact, the blonde scratches the back of her head sheepishly.

A radiant smile is always gracing her lips, exposing pearly whites, all straight and proper. Wearing a button-up with slim-fitting slacks, the apron wrapped around her waist serves Elsa as a reminder of how she had met Rapunzel.

"So, what'll you two ladies be having today?"

Elsa decides for the regular. "I'll just have a coffee, and she'll—"

"We'll both have the Vanellope Von Schweetz!" Red cast a runaway grin to Elsa, exercising her God-given right to annoy her to no end. Elsa doesn't want to admit it, but she feels as if she knows her already. Pretty bold statement, coming from the girl who had literally picked her up from a cardboard box yesterday.

* * *

*****RECIPE OF THE V.V.S*****

**4 tablespoons of butter **

**1 cup of whole milk**

**1 ¼ cups flour**

**2 eggs**

**6 ounces of Ralph's Chocolate Kisses**

**Eyeball the sugar, salt, and baking powder**

**and add a little bit o' love!**

* * *

"I definitely don't want the pancakes." Elsa countered.

"That's a great choice." Rapunzel nodded with approval, suddenly deaf to the blonde.

"Hey, those two are my territory! Get your own tippers!"

Flynn walks up to trio with their water in his tray. He's got this stupid grin on his face that makes Elsa want to puke. Honestly, what does anyone see in him? That smolder doesn't fool anyone….except maybe Rapunzel.

And yet still, no one acknowledges her disgust of the pancakes.

Gah. "I don't want the damn diabetic pancakes." Elsa says it a bit louder, refusing to believe they were ignoring her.

"Relax, Eugene." an eye-roll from Rapunzel, "They're old friends of mine."

And the ignoring continues. But Elsa catches the words flowing out of Rapunzel's cherry lips and examines one closely.

They're. They're. They're. Not she. Red was in too.

Rapunzel has always been that type of girl. Everyone was her friend, regardless of how long they had known each other. Everyone loves her, regardless of how stunning her eyes are or what she does for a living. She's all sunshine and butterflies and rainbows.

She's the girl Elsa wishes she was.

But that is neither here nor there. Elsa doesn't want the pancakes from diabetes hell.

"No shit, Sherlock." Flynn strides closer and bumps Rapunzel with his hip, "You and Elsa have known each other for years, babe."

"Then you've deduced exactly _why_ I'm serving her, good doctor." Rapunzel flashed a rogue grin and leaned up to peck her boyfriend on the lips, "It's quite elementary, after all, my dear Watson."

Flynn smirks at the Sherlock Holmes reference and leans in for another. The fluttering kisses, although small and spectacularly insignificant, reminds Elsa of the past. And she's sure that it's not the pancakes that are going to make her vomit anymore.

"I don't want the pancakes…" Elsa's voice droops with the exhaustion of her plight and she massages her temples slowly, "I don't want the damn pancakes…"

Three sets of eyes fall on her.

And stay there.

"Elsa," Flynn's the first to acknowledge her frustration, surprisingly, "Live a little. Some pancakes with chocolate chips in them won't kill your figure."

"It's not my figure I'm worried about, heathen."

A smirk. "Sure."

What the hell is wrong with everyone? She doesn't want pancakes, goddamn it. She doesn't feel like eating and no one can make her eat the stupid pancakes. It's not that she's a model, why does everyone think it's because she's a model?

Elsa desperately looks around for anyone to fight in her corner with her. Her mistake is looking at Red.

Instead of a tag-out double, Elsa gets clotheslined in the throat. Shit. That smirk coming from the redhead is a catalyst for a chemical disaster. Anger and annoyance ensues.

_I fucking took you in_, Elsa grits her imaginary mind-teeth, _Are you serious?_

Of course, the redheaded vagrant only keeps that stupid smile on her face, persistently beaming that disgusting excitement and warmth. Rapunzel is next, and Elsa hopes she doesn't disappoint.

"Elsa," _Rapunzel_, Elsa thinks to herself, _Don't you fucking dare_—"Just get the pancakes."

"I—"

"Get the pancakes." Rapunzel is firm on this.

"No, but I—"

"Get the pancakes." Two voices now. Flynn and Rapunzel are together in this. A regular tag-team duo. Elsa doesn't like that.

"…you guys—"

"Get the pancakes." All three of them have joined in now. Three on one. Betrayal from the redhead. Is this some soap-opera WWE match?

"…fine."

Elsa orders the pancakes.

The smile on Red's face is a little blemished by the absolute smug vibe radiating off her.

Flynn and Rapunzel make their exit, walking together to the kitchens to grab the customers' orders. As much as they want stay and gloat, they have a job. They have that much at least.

"They're cute together." Red's smile is focused on the backside of the two waiters walking away, churning Elsa's stomach. She hopes to God that Red's not interested. "What's their story?"

Damn it, she hoped too late.

"Doesn't matter. It won't last long…" Elsa sighs and picks up a fork, tilting it this way and that, watching the metal gleam and shine, "It never lasts long with him."

Why is she telling this to her? Maybe because it's what she wants to believe. That someone besides herself can fall for someone like that.

Red's nose twitches and she perks up a bit. She's interested now.

"Oohh, gossip!" Red edges closer to Elsa, taking Elsa's hands in her own, leaning further across the table.

* * *

*****KUDOS, COLONEL HANS LANDA*****

"**I love rumors!**

**Facts can be so misleading, whereas rumors,**

**true or false,**

**are often revealing."**

* * *

"It's not gossip!" Elsa's hands retreat back, shying away from the redhead's touch. "Flynn…no, Eugene. Eugene's not the type to…" Elsa searches for the words, to add bouquets and perfume to the corpse of the truth, "He just won't be a good boyfriend." Elsa finishes lamely.

Flynn Rider, or Eugene Fitzherbert, lived for flesh. He craved carnal desire and thrived in it. He would spend countless nights in someone else's bed, sheets twisted from clenched hands in ecstasy or drenched in vodka tonic sweat. He tallies the sting of nails scraped across his back, the bruises on his neck and chest. Chalks them up as victorious conquests.

And worst yet, he fancies himself as a sort of thief. The most interesting kind, he told Elsa one day when she had confronted him, no pickpocketing or stick-ups.

He stole hearts. Deftly. Softly. Wrapped them into his silk palms and whisked them away.

Hearts that have already been carefully placed in another man's hands.

A home wrecker, a deal breaker, a manwhore. He was all of those things.

And, of course, the sex had nothing to do with stealing hearts. That was all part of the reward.

"I don't get it…" Red stirs her ice water with a straw, settled back down in her seat, "He won't watch True Blood with her?"

_There's no way she can be that stupid_, Elsa warns herself.

Elsa shoots daggers and Red blinks innocently back. Another second passes and Red's finally shot down.

Red mumbles past her pout. "She looks like the type of girl to watch—"

"And why would a homeless girl know something like that?"

Elsa's a suspicious person. Always has been, and especially since The Incident, Elsa finds herself doubting everyone. And everything. In fact, Elsa's a little suspicious right now.

_Are you here to use me, too?_

Elsa is paranoid.

And so the trip down memory lane begins.

Thoughts of Flynn's debauchery had infected her thoughts and manifested itself into another man.

Him.

Red makes some lame excuse about billboards and posters but Elsa is slowly droning her out. Out with the new and in with the old. Flashbacks of lazy morning kisses against her shoulder and sharing two-bit TV dinners in a loveseat. Those were good times, before the hurt, and Elsa doesn't notice herself slowly slipping away. Lowering her guard on her lips, relaxing tight stiffness into a flimsy smile of reminisce.

The clatter of the knife hitting the table flat-lines her memory into relapse.

Into the future, the present. The hurt.

And Elsa lips are once again into a tight line. Her eyes don't hold that same warmth as before.

And then, her lips twitch with that chemical compulsion to take a drag of those cigarettes in her purse right now. Memory blindsides her and she remembers that he was the one that started her smoking.

She realized long ago that those ash-filled kisses, the smoke settled deep in their lungs, is a disease. The memory of him is a disease. So she needs to take a toke of ashes and smoke to burn away the memory of the man who taught her to kiss ash. To burn away his nicotine lips and smoky eyes.

Her fingers taps staccatos against the table and her lips are just _itching_ for that chemical release.

Red, staring confused, asks Elsa if she's alright.

And Elsa tells her everything is just peachy.

Just. Peachy.

Elsa takes a sip of water. Grabs an ice cube or two and munches on it. She takes some more to ease the itching, and rolls it thoughtfully on her tongue.

"I can really tell something is bothering you."

"Oh really?" Elsa speaks through the ice cube rolling around her mouth.

"That's, like, the thirtieth ice cube you've eaten."

"So?"

Red leans forward, smiles confidence, and Elsa can't help but notice how the lashes on her eyes catch the sunlight beaming through the window.

"No one eats that many ice cubes without something distracting them."

"I'm just hungry."

She tilts her head. "But you said you only wanted coffee earlier."

"I—"

"Vanellope Von Schweetz!" Flynn, for once, shows up exactly when Elsa wants him to, "Careful ladies, they're hot."

The plates he places on their table are a matching porcelain color. Elsa is surprised to find that the Vanellope Von Schweetz, despite its name, is rather simple. Fluffy pancakes riddled with little reminders of chocolate, served with a dollop of cream.

Elsa stares at the breakfast.

Red stares at Elsa.

And then Elsa stares back.

"Say it."

Elsa is reluctant. But she has to admit, it's…cute. As food goes.

She tries to ignore Red's grin. "It doesn't look that bad."

* * *

**A/N: **We all know Red is Anna...so if you see an accidental "Anna" instead of Red until later chapters, let me know and I'll fix it immediately.


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